


I can tell you, the telling gets old

by alterocentrist



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 12:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: Marianne, a promising young photographer, travels to Brest to stay with a widowed film star and her inscrutable younger daughter.A modern adaptation ofPortrait of a Lady on Fire.The title is from Sufjan Stevens' "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!"
Relationships: Marianne/Héloïse
Comments: 75
Kudos: 443





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently obsessed with this film and I almost can't believe that it moved me the way it did. I debated with myself back and forth on whether I should write this, but I decided to bite the bullet. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. I will be uploading this story in four parts. It is an adaptation, so there are a few things that I've changed because it better suited the new context. I'll be writing about this more when I've finished uploading all the parts, so sit tight--or talk to me about it in the comments!
> 
> (First thing's first: I had to give the Comtesse a name, as she isn't actually a noblewoman in this fic!)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little Christmas treat. Please do leave comments. I enjoy reading them.

_Hero had known for years what it was like to want something that nobody in the living world could ever give you, and she wouldn't have wished that feeling on anyone--especially not on the woman in front of her now, face shucked bare, luminous, and so crushingly lovely that Hero's whole body ached to be far from her, starting deep in her chest and radiating out into her arms, circuiting through all the long ago shorted-out nerves and staggery veins, lighting up the thin webbing between her fingers, sinking into all the hurt-hard places where for years only pain had come to settle, and gather, and home. Hero ached to be far from her, knowing that nearness would present a yet more grievous and persistent ache._

\- _America is Not the Heart_, Elaine Castillo

* * *

Marianne watches as one of her students takes her place on the stool, and another student gets down on one knee while fussing with the dials of her camera. The six remaining members of the class stand in a loose half-circle a respectful distance away. They are also keenly observing.

“Right.” Marianne clears her throat. She’s standing behind her student with the camera, watching the adjustments she’s making. “Remember, with the lighting setup you’ve got, it’s not necessary to shoot wide open.” She gestures at the warm lights surrounding them. “What’s important is you’re nailing the focus on her entire face.”

“Okay,” the student says.

Marianne leaves them to it. As an instructor, she limits her hovering. She steps away and wanders the perimeter of the room, when something catches her eye. “Hey, who brought this out here? This photograph?”

The students stop what they’re doing to look at what she’s looking at. One of the observers puts her hand up. “I saw it in storage, while we were getting the lights,” she said. “Shouldn’t I have done that?”

“No, it’s okay.” Marianne stares at the photograph, partly in disbelief that it still has the same impact on her.

It’s a full body shot of a woman standing at the beach, her face in profile and mostly obscured by her blonde hair.

“When did you take this?” the same student asks.

“Years ago now,” Marianne answers.

“She looks kind of familiar, for some reason,” another student pipes up.

Marianne turns back to the students. “Does she?”

* * *

Driving in the rain was one of Marianne’s least favourite activities. She didn’t enjoy driving much in the first place, and the rain just further soured her feelings.

Her GPS chirped: _ At the next intersection, turn left _.

Marianne looked ahead and saw the queue of cars waiting to make a left turn at the stop sign. She sighed. Something flashed in her rearview mirror. When she glanced up to check, she discovered that it was a patrol car. The officer at the wheel gestured for her to pull over. “Oh, you’ve gotta be joking,” she muttered, as she flicked her indicator and pulled into the shoulder. She killed the engine and rolled her window down as the officer approached.

The officer was a kind-faced woman who looked about the same age as her. “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” Marianne responded. “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding?”

The officer laughed. “Mademoiselle, are you aware that your rear left tyre has gone flat?”

“Oh.” Marianne recalled, with a sinking realisation, the horrid noise that she ignored about fifteen minutes ago. “No, officer.”

“Look, do you have a spare tyre? Would you like some assistance in putting it on?”

Together, in the rain, Marianne and the officer swapped out the punctured tyre for her space-saver. “I’m still half an hour away from my destination and I’m not gonna make it there on this tyre,” she said.

“Yeah, you’re going to need to drop this off at a shop in town,” the officer said. “Follow me, I’ll give you an escort.”

It turned out that all of the garages in town were already closed. The officer made a phone call and managed to find a garage who would take in the car overnight, but wouldn’t be able to work on it until the next morning. By the time Marianne handed over her keys, it was already dark.

The officer, having gotten in touch with her base, offered to give Marianne a ride to her destination.

Marianne shifted her duffel bag, messenger bag and crate of photography equipment into the officer’s car. Not wanting to get the officer’s seats wet with her rain-soaked clothes, she shrugged into her black coat before getting into the front passenger seat.

“The Comtesse’s château, eh?” the officer asked her, amused.

“Does everyone really call her that?” Marianne asked.

“Not to her face, no,” the officer said. “Are you going to be staying with her?”

“Yes, for work,” Marianne said.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.” Marianne nodded. “I’m a photographer.”

* * *

There were no lights on in the château when Marianne and the officer eventually arrived. The officer helped her unload her things, and when she knocked on the door, a short young woman answered it. Marianne introduced herself.

“Good evening. I’m Sophie,” the young woman said. She reached for Marianne’s bags. “Come on in.”

Marianne thanked the officer. She pushed her crate inside, then closed the door and listened to the sound of the patrol car leaving. She followed Sophie up the stairs and down a hallway to a large room, empty save for some mismatched pieces of furniture and a sofa bed.

“Madame says that you prefer to work and sleep in one room,” Sophie told her, after she switched the light on. “I hope this will do.”

“This is excellent, thanks,” Marianne said. “The house is quiet. Where is everyone?”

“Madame's in town with her daughter, at a dinner party. They won’t be back until very late. Madame told me to tell you to settle in and that she’ll meet with you tomorrow,” Sophie said.

Marianne faced Sophie. She thought that maybe it was her stature that made her look young, but looking at her properly, in better lighting, she realised that Sophie _ was _young. “How long have you been living here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“This will be my third year. I only live here during the university term. My mother used to be Madame’s personal assistant, long ago. When I chose to come to university, Madame offered to have me live with her in exchange for doing some of the housework. I even get a small allowance,” Sophie explained.

“Generous,” Marianne said.

Sophie nodded. “She is,” she said. “Anyway, the bathroom is just across the hall, if you want to take a shower. We share that one. Madame and her daughter both have ensuites. And downstairs, next to the kitchen, is the laundry room. You can leave your wet clothes there, I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thank you, Sophie,” Marianne said.

With another nod, Sophie excused herself, leaving Marianne alone.

Marianne dug into her duffel bag for her toiletries and towels. After taking a shower and changing into a t-shirt and sweatpants, she bundled up her wet clothes and brought them downstairs into the laundry room. Beside the laundry room is the entranceway to the kitchen, which, like in many older houses in the country, had enough space for a dining table for the household staff. Realising that she hadn’t eaten for hours, Marianne rooted around the kitchen, eventually finding some bread, butter and cheese. She ate slowly, savouring the wholesomeness of the simple meal.

Upstairs, the door creaked open.

“Bonsoir, Madame,” Marianne heard Sophie say.

“Bonsoir,” the dignified voice of an older woman spoke. “Is she here?”

“Yes,” was Sophie’s reply.

Marianne didn’t leave the kitchen until she could no longer hear voices or footsteps.

* * *

Her hostess asked to meet her in the sitting room.

According to a remark made by Sophie at breakfast, this house had _ three _different sitting rooms.

Sophie left for class while Marianne wandered into each sitting room, hoping to find the right one. The first one had furniture that was covered with canvas dust protectors. The second one had a television, several full bookcases, and cosy, worn-down furniture. The third one had framed film posters hanging across one wall. Marianne knew one of them very well.

“Your father made me a star,” a voice behind her spoke.

Marianne turned around to smile at the older woman. Elena, a French-Italian actress, best known for her role as a comtesse in a high-budget nineties period film.

In the poster of Marianne’s father’s film, a younger version of Elena was not in the centre, but a little off to the side. It was her breakthrough role, one that started a good string of projects for her throughout the eighties and nineties.

“Bonjour, Marianne,” Elena said. She stepped forward to give Marianne a kiss on each cheek. “Did you have a good journey? I don’t see your car outside.”

“My car’s actually at a garage in town at the moment.” Marianne briefly explained yesterday’s incident. “But otherwise, the trip was good. I’m just happy to be here.”

“Good,” Elena said. “I hope you’re making yourself at home. Have you seen our pool? It’s wonderfully heated. We’re not far from the beach either, but that’s a much chillier swim.”

“I’m sure I’ll get the chance to take advantage of those, thank you,” Marianne said.

“Let’s sit down.” Walking to the fireplace, Elena sat down on one of the armchairs, and gestured for Marianne to take the other one. “I’m very glad that you’re here. Your father, you know, is still a good friend of mine. Rarely do you meet anyone in the industry that’s stayed as kind and respectful as he is.”

“He did say that you needed a favour.”

“Yes.” Elena straightened in her seat. “As you know, it’s been a difficult time for my family. My husband and my eldest daughter, they’re gone now, and I have to admit that since then, I’ve been hiding myself away, not really wanting to see anyone, or be seen anywhere.”

Marianne nodded. Elena’s husband, a shipping mogul, passed away a couple of years ago, and her eldest daughter, an actress herself, died tragically not even a year ago.

Elena continued: “As you know, I’ve been retired for a few years now, but I’m planning to start working again.” She smiled. “I’ve been scared of what people have been saying about me. I brought you here because I want to take control of the story. My family needs that, don't you agree?"

"So you need me to take photographs."

"I'm meeting with my publicist and my agent in Paris at the end of the week. If I can go to them saying I've found a photographer, then they can get to work on finding a journalist. Preferably someone who has sway with the big magazines," Elena explained. 

The Comtesse was planning a comeback. Marianne bit her lip. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Elena said.

“Why did you choose me? I’m sure you could call someone more established, more successful, and they would be happy to shoot you.” Marianne shifted in her chair, protectively clasping her hands in front of her.

“You come highly recommended. Not just because of your father. Word’s getting around about you. I’m sure you’re aware of that,” Elena said. “But also, I said before that I want to control my story. Wouldn’t you photographing me be such a nice touch? People will make the connection when they see your name on the page. I can think of no better way to honour the role your father played in my history.”

Marianne appreciated Elena’s sense for narrative. “Coming full circle, then.” She nodded. “In that case, I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“Excellent.” The corners of Elena’s lips quirked. “But it’s not just me you’ll be working with.” She paused, waiting for Marianne to give her an acknowledgement to continue. “I want this to be a family affair. It wasn’t just me who was affected by the loss of my husband and daughter, and I want people to see that. I’d like my younger daughter to be photographed as well, but… you could say that she’s,” she paused, searching for the right word, “hesitant to be in the spotlight.”

“And you’re still determined to include her?” Marianne asked.

“It’ll make for a better story, don’t you think?” Elena could barely keep the need for validation from colouring her tone. “Besides, I think it’ll be cathartic for both of us. It’ll be odd, if the article comes out and it’s like she doesn’t exist. She_ has _ to be in it.”

Marianne took the time to consider her response. Up until this point, she was thinking about how this was going to be a straightforward job. Three weeks in a beautiful seaside house, with a subject who loved the camera… It was practically a holiday. But hearing Elena talk about her younger daughter was making her stomach twist. “Who’s going to convince her?” Marianne finally asked.

“I’ve been working on her, of course,” Elena answered. “But I’m also hoping that because you two are the same age, and that you also grew up in the shadow of your father’s career, perhaps you’ll be able to get to her, too.”

“All right,” was all Marianne could say. She was afraid that Elena would say something like that.

* * *

After a light lunch, Marianne ventured for a walk outside. Because of its cliffside location, the château didn’t have vast grounds, compared to similar homes out in the farming plains. Marianne brought her camera with her, partly because she wanted to scout locations to shoot the Comtesse in, and partly because she wasn’t accustomed to such rugged beauty. Several times, she found herself stopping and just taking in deep lungfuls of the salty sea breeze, while listening to the waves crashing in the distance.

She was at the front of the house, aiming her camera towards an archway made of stone, when she heard the low growl of car engine behind her. Quickly, she pressed the shutter button. She lowered her camera and turned to look, getting ready to move out of the way if need be. But the silver station wagon drove the other way and parked.

Marianne watched as the driver stepped out: a tall woman wearing a navy hoodie and black workout pants. Her shoulder-length wavy blonde hair looked unruly yet soft. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but as her lips formed a scowl, Marianne knew she had been spotted.

The woman opened the back of the station wagon. She slung a backpack over one shoulder, and a mesh bag on the other. She unfastened a surfboard from the roof of her car, and once the board was tucked under her arm, she sauntered off around the other side of the house, disappearing from Marianne’s view.

* * *

Sophie, having arrived back from university, was walking down the hallway when Marianne intercepted her and beckoned her inside her bedroom.

Marianne shut the door behind them. “Can I be nosy?” she asked.

Sophie looked around the room, as if checking that they weren’t being surveilled. “Uh, sure, I guess,” she said.

“The Comtesse’s younger daughter… what’s she like?”

“I don’t really know her yet,” Sophie replied.

Marianne frowned. “But you’ve been here for two years now,” she said.

“Yes, but I only just met her last month, and she keeps to herself most days,” Sophie said. “She used to live in Paris, and whenever she visited here, it just so happened that I was home with my family.”

“What did she do in Paris?” Marianne asked.

“She was a teaching fellow at the Sorbonne. She got into this doctorate programme in America, and she was supposed to move there in September.” Sophie hesitated.

“But?” Marianne prompted.

“But her sister passed, and Madame let her finish the term before bringing her back here at the beginning of the summer,” Sophie said.

“Does she still plan on going to America?” Marianne asked.

Sophie shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

* * *

The next morning, Marianne woke up and felt the urge to go for a swim. Her bedroom, incidentally, had a clear view of the swimming pool. She changed into her swimsuit, wrapped herself in a towel, and headed outside.

It was a crisp mid-autumn morning, too cold to be standing outside in nothing but a swimsuit, but Elena was right: the pool was heated to an ideal temperature. Marianne dunked herself underwater a couple of times to quickly get warm. She put her goggles on and did several lengths of breaststroke. She enjoyed the way the water yielded to her, and she definitely enjoyed having a pool to herself.

She switched to backstroke. She concentrated on swimming in a straight line, and on not hitting her head on the walls, which was difficult with only the clear blue sky as a reference. She was swimming back from the deep end when she spotted a figure standing on the edge of the pool by the shallow end.

It was Elena’s younger daughter, wearing a black swimsuit, her hair tucked under a white swimming cap. Her goggles hung loosely on the fingers of her left hand. If she was feeling the cold temperature, she didn’t show it. She regarded Marianne with a curious expression.

Marianne righted herself. Standing on the pool floor, she looked up at the other woman. “Bonjour,” she said.

The other woman simply got in the pool without a word. She stood in front of Marianne, still staring.

Being close to her like this, Marianne took her chance to look. They were the same height, but Marianne noticed that the woman appeared taller at first glance, as her broad shoulders and strong hips and legs gave her a more imposing presence.

With the bright sky reflected in them, the woman had a steely grey stare. She slipped her goggles on, pulling the cups over her eyes. “Ah, so _ you’re _ Maman’s pet paparazzo.” This was the first and the last thing out of her mouth, as she proceeded to swim down the length of the pool. Her front crawl could have been considered aggressive, if her strokes weren’t practically silent. She was a technically perfect swimmer.

Marianne watched her for a while, before hoisting herself out of the pool, instantly shivering in the cold.

* * *

“I heard that you and Héloïse have met,” Elena said, as Marianne arranged lights around her.

“Oh, is that how she tells it?” Marianne asked, as she screwed a light onto a stand. _ Héloïse _, she thought to herself. It was an interesting choice for a name. She knew maybe one or two others, but they were much older.

Elena chuckled ruefully. “I must apologise on her behalf,” she said. “Héloïse isn’t the warmest of people.”

Marianne switched on a light, and Elena squinted momentarily as her eyes adjusted to it. “Is that too bright?” Marianne asked her.

“Uh, no, it should be fine,” Elena said.

“Cool.” Marianne moved on to the next light. “And what you said about your daughter? Understatement.”

“She takes after her father. Spitting image of him, too. Quite patrician features, don’t you think?”

Marianne checked the way the light fell on Elena’s face, and decided against turning on another light. She took her position on a small stool a couple of metres away from Elena. She evaluated the light again. She had a feeling it would throw Elena’s features into sharp relief. She didn’t want that; she intended for her to look softer. She cleared her throat. “One second, I think I might diffuse that light,” she said. She got up to rummage through her crate for the correct gel. Anything to keep herself from admitting that ever since she saw Héloïse, all she wanted to do was to take her photograph.

With the gel clipped onto the light, Marianne peered at Elena through the LCD screen of her camera. “You like this pose?” she asked.

“We’ll try it for now,” Elena said.

“Okay.” Marianne looked through the viewfinder. She lowered the camera. “All right, for this one, I want you to try looking strong, yet thoughtful…” She hesitated. “Maybe strong isn’t the right word.”

“Resolved, perhaps?” Elena offered.

“Yes, let’s try that.” Marianne brought the camera to her eye again. After focusing, she pressed the shutter button. The camera clicked. “And again.” Another click. “Can you relax your shoulders?” she asked. She waited for Elena to follow her instructions before pressing the shutter once more.

Ten minutes into the shoot, Marianne let Elena have a short break while she swapped out the lights for remote flashes. She knelt on the floor to set up a reflector screen, while Elena studied herself in a mirror, fixing hair that was out of place. “Tell me a little bit more about Héloïse,” she said to Elena.

“Héloïse? She’s an oddity,” Elena said. “I’ve never met a more intelligent person. Her mind intimidated me, even when she was a child.”

“She was at the Sorbonne, yes?”

“Yes, she was teaching English literature. I don’t know how she found the passion for it. We’re not readers in this family, unless it’s screenplays,” Elena said. “I hate to say this, but I feel like I hardly recognise her some days. Except for her anger. I can always see that.”

Marianne stood up, brushed her jeans off. “Oh, yes, that’s the first thing I noticed about her.” Even that day when Héloïse was unloading her car, Marianne saw the anger that bubbled underneath, in the way Héloïse moved and held herself. Yet she didn’t find it off-putting. If anything, it had the opposite effect.

“I understand her anger a bit. We’ve always had a troublesome relationship, but now that her father and her sister are gone… we only have each other,” Elena said. “We must find a way to become a family again.”

“Sit tight, I’ll just test these flashes,” Marianne told Elena. She pressed a button on a remote, and the room erupted in sharp fluorescent strikes of light.

“I think that’ll make me blink,” Elena said.

“I agree.” Marianne made adjustments, and tested them once more. “Better?”

Elena nodded.

Picking up her camera, Marianne sat on the stool again. “For this bit, I want you to channel the Comtesse,” she said. She watched as Elena arranged herself into a pose. “Cool.” She started to raise the camera to her face but then her phone started to ring. “I think I need to get that, sorry,” she told Elena.

“No worries,” Elena said.

Marianne stood up and walked to the sofa bed, where she had tossed her phone. She accepted the call. “Hello?” It was the garage. Her car was ready for pickup. She thanked them and hung up, and relayed the news to Elena. “We’ll finish up here and then I’ll find a way to go into town. Taxis come here, right?”

“Taxi? What nonsense! I saw Héloïse’s car outside. I bet she’s just been reading the whole day,” Elena said. “After this, I’ll find her and tell her to take you.”

“Will that be okay?” Marianne asked, unsure what to think about the prospect of being in a confined space with Héloïse, even for just ten minutes.

“Yes, I’m sure it will be,” Elena said. “Now, you said you wanted me to be the Comtesse?”

* * *

Héloïse _ was _reading in the second sitting room when her mother told her to put her book down and accompany Marianne into town. Sheepish, Marianne had followed Héloïse outside to her station wagon. Without a word, Héloïse unlocked the car and got into the driver’s seat. She started the engine as soon as Marianne closed the passenger door.

“Which garage is it again?” she asked curtly.

Marianne told her.

When they reached the main road, Marianne started to watch Héloïse drive. She was a confident, yet careful driver. She took her time to actually stop at each stop sign, and she checked her mirrors regularly. She was wearing her sunglasses again, and this drew Marianne’s attention to her mouth. Héloïse had full lips, the corners of which seemed naturally upturned into a frown, if she wasn’t busy chewing on her bottom lip.

Stopped at a pedestrian crossing, Héloïse glanced at Marianne, causing Marianne to tear her eyes away.

“I’m sorry,” Marianne said, once they got going again.

“For staring?” Héloïse asked.

“For having interrupted your reading,” Marianne said. “Your mother said you taught literature.”

“I bet she relished at getting to use the past tense,” Héloïse said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Marianne said.

Héloïse smirked. “Then I don’t think you know my mother well enough yet.”

“I _ know _ I don’t,” Marianne retorted. “But I think I’ve judged her well enough to see that she means no harm.”

“Your father,” Héloïse said abruptly. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s that filmmaker.”

“Yes.”

“Do you work for him?” Héloïse asked.

“No, I work for myself,” Marianne said.

“Do you get along with him?”

Marianne, who had kept her eyes on the road when Héloïse had caught her staring, turned again to look at her. Héloïse’s eyes were also on the road, but she seemed genuinely curious. “My father and I get along very well,” Marianne answered.

“See, he’s supportive of you,” Héloïse said. “That’s why you don’t understand me.” 

They arrived at the garage. Héloïse parked the car and turned off the engine.

Before Marianne got out of the car, she told Héloïse: “I _ do _understand you.” Once she had sorted out her car and had her keys returned to her, she got into the driver’s seat. In her left wing mirror, she saw Héloïse start her own engine and reverse out of the garage, not even bothering to wait for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your positive responses to the first part of this fic. I've decided to upload chapters as soon as I finish the following one, ie I just finished writing the third part, so now I'm going to upload the second part.
> 
> The songs alluded to in this chapter are "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!" by Sufjan Stevens and "We Found Love" by Rihanna ft. Calvin Harris. 
> 
> This was written with a lot of love. I hope that this will be a treat for the Sufjan Stevens fans and book nerds out there.
> 
> As always, leave a comment with your thoughts! I reply to all of them.

Marianne handed Elena a reflector. “Can you just hold it in front of you like this?” She positioned the reflector in the correct spot. “Keep it nice and still so that the light doesn’t bounce off weird at the last second,” she told Elena.

Elena nodded.

Marianne aimed the camera at her. “Ready?” She took a handful of shots. “Nice, now can you just tilt the reflector up a little bit. A bit more? That’s it.” She smiled at Elena encouragingly before taking more photographs. “All right, I think we’re done for the day.” She reached out for her reflector. “Thanks for that,” she told Elena.

“No, thank _ you _,” Elena said. “This shoot has been a breeze.”

“Only because you are a pleasure to work with,” Marianne said, and it was true. It helped that Elena had the experience. She knew not to fidget. Crucially, she had an innate understanding of why Marianne would pose her a certain way, or why she had to hold a reflector. Too many shoots were made difficult by subjects who couldn’t see from the photographer’s perspective.

Elena glanced at her watch for the time. “Oh good, I can make it to lunch in town on time. I’m meeting up with some friends… Well, they’re the wives of my husband’s friends, but they’re good company, mostly,” she told Marianne. “What will you be doing for the rest of the day?”

“Editing these, of course,” Marianne said.

“Well, if you get fed up with that, there’s always the pool,” Elena said.

Marianne chuckled. “Oh, I’m definitely thinking about that,” she said.

“Héloïse is home,” Elena said. “She usually cooks lunch. I hope she’ll be a good host and fix you something, too.”

Marianne wanted to laugh at the thought of Héloïse fixing her a meal. She wasn’t crossing her fingers for that. “Well, I’m going to transfer these to my computer,” she said, tapping her camera. “I hope you have a lovely lunch.”

“I will!”

Twenty minutes later, Marianne went down to the kitchen. There was a still-hot bowl of soup, a bread roll, and some sliced fruit underneath a plastic dome cover. Beside it, tucked under the butter dish, was a piece of scrap paper. There was a message in uneven yet neat letters: _ There’s more soup in the pot on the stove _. 

In her surprise, Marianne couldn’t resist a smile.

* * *

Editing brought a different kind of pleasure from shooting. Marianne liked that she could get locked in for hours, with her earphones on, her cursor instinctively brushing over her screen, lost to the world.

She was comparing between two different adjustments to one of the Comtesse’s portraits when someone knocked on her bedroom door. She tugged her earphones off.

“Marianne?” It was Héloïse. She knocked again. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Marianne called out. What could Héloïse want?

Héloïse opened the door and walked inside. Her hair was in a bun. She was dressed in blue again: jeans, a navy sweater, with the neck of a white t-shirt peeking out from under the collar. “Have you eaten?” she asked, though her voice was mostly empty of hospitable notions.

“Yes, thank you for the lunch,” Marianne said. She watched as Héloïse wrung her hands restlessly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any marijuana on you,” Héloïse ventured.

Marianne suppressed a laugh. “As it happens, I do,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“Please.”

While Marianne fetched her tin of pre-rolled joints from her messenger bag, Héloïse opened the windows. “Good idea. For when your mother comes in here,” she said.

“Maman isn’t the most perceptive when it comes to matters that don’t concern her,” Héloïse said. “I’m opening the windows for _ your _benefit.” She sat on a two-seater couch that Marianne had pushed by the window a few days ago, to get it out of the frame.

Marianne walked over to the couch, lighter and joint in hand. She handed the joint to Héloïse, who stuck it in between her lips. 

Héloïse tilted her chin upwards, waiting for Marianne to light the joint for her. 

Marianne paused for a moment, tamping down the urge to retrieve her camera and capture the sight. Once she collected herself, she reached forward to light the joint. She sat beside Héloïse on the couch, at arm’s length.

“Thanks.” Héloïse took a short puff, and then a longer one. She closed her eyes for a moment and then exhaled. She opened her eyes. “This isn’t from Paris,” she said.

Marianne couldn’t resist smiling at the thought of Héloïse having smoked enough marijuana to tell the difference. “You’re correct. It’s from Marseilles.”

Héloïse inhaled again. “Do you live in Marseilles?” This question was accompanied with a trail of smoke.

“No, I live in Saint-Etienne. The person I bought that from,” Marianne nodded towards the joint, “he gets his supply from Marseilles.”

“I assumed you live in Paris.”

“I was born and raised there, but I moved to Lyon after finishing at PCA. But I ended up liking Saint-Etienne better, so I shifted there after a few months,” Marianne explained.

“I’ve never been.”

“To Saint-Etienne?”

Héloïse nodded as she took a puff. “I can’t even say I’ve been to Lyon,” she said. “It was just a stop, usually, on the way to Nice or Cannes or Florence.”

“I think you’d like Lyon,” Marianne said. “It’s like Paris, but slightly less hectic.”

“But that’s what I like about Paris,” Héloïse said. “I like feeling overwhelmed. I like feeling like I don’t quite know what I’m doing.”

What a strange thing to say, Marianne thought. “But see, that’s why I like Saint-Etienne. I just felt more focused there. More job opportunities, less competition, less distraction,” she told Héloïse. “Do you miss the Sorbonne?”

“Yes. But my time there has passed.” Héloïse blew out a long trail. “Do you know Northwestern University?”

“Heard of it. It’s in America, right?”

Héloïse nodded. “It’s in Illinois. A city called Evanston, just north of Chicago,” she said. “I was accepted into their doctoral programme for comparative literature. There’s nothing like it in France. But, you know, since my sister died…”

“Did you have to turn them down?” Marianne asked.

“They let me defer, on compassionate grounds, for a maximum of a year,” Héloïse said. “Afterwards, if I’m still unable to leave here, then I’d have to turn them down for good.” She puffed on the joint, almost bitterly.

“Why don’t you just leave?” It confounded Marianne. Surely Héloïse had money and resources of her own.

“Maman can be volatile,” Héloïse responded. “I refuse to be held responsible for what she’ll do if _ I _ leave her.”

“Oh.” Marianne paused, thinking of how to change the subject. “Is there much surfing in Illinois?”

Héloïse exhaled, shaking her head. “No surfing in Paris, either. But there are things I’m willing to leave behind.” She spotted Marianne’s earphones dangling out of the collar of Marianne’s shirt. “What were you listening to?”

“Oh, just some indie folk,” Marianne said, using the English term.

“Indie folk?” Héloïse repeated.

“It’s hard to explain.” Marianne scooted closer to Héloïse. She picked up an earbud and handed it to her. “Here.” She placed an earbud in her right ear, and waited for Héloïse to wear the other one in her left. Marianne pressed play on her iPod.

It took about twenty seconds of them listening to Joanna Newsom before Héloïse fixed her amused stare on Marianne. “This is Paris hipster café music,” she commented, before taking a dismissive puff.

“Wait, I’ll play you something else,” Marianne said. “Do you know Sufjan Stevens?”

“That sounds like a made up name.”

“It’s not. He’s American. He recorded this whole album dedicated to Illinois.” Marianne scrolled until she found the song she was looking for. “This song is my favourite.” She pressed play. They listened to a flute tentatively finding its way over the waves of guitar and piano playing complementary arpeggios. The flute faded out to a man’s gentle voice, not dissimilar in timbre.

“What’s this about?” Héloïse asked.

“He’s telling the story of when he first fell in love.”

Héloïse nodded. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the lyrics.

They continued listening together. When the strings swelled into the vocal harmonies, Marianne saw Héloïse smile for the first time.

* * *

After her morning swim, Marianne entered the house and was alarmed at the sound of terse voices coming from one of the sitting rooms. Her towel wrapped tight around her, she padded down the corridor to see what was happening.

“You are _ obsessed _with fame, Maman,” Héloïse was saying to her mother.

Through the ajar doors of the third sitting room, Marianne could see Héloïse and her mother standing in the centre of the room, facing each other. Héloïse towered over her mother. Elena appeared indignant, and Héloïse was aloof, looking down at her.

“It’s not about fame,” Elena argued back. “I’m doing this for us.”

Héloïse put her hands on her hips. “Is that so? I don’t see why I have to put my life on hold so that the _ Comtesse _,” she practically spat the word out, “can revive her career.”

“I want us to be a family,” Elena said.

“We _ are _ a family. That’s something that just _ is _,” Héloïse said. “We don’t need a journalist or a photographer to make that more real for us. It’s perfectly real the way it is.”

“So why are you always fighting with me?”

“I don’t see how a journalist or photographer could fix that either.”

“Look, without your father, or your sister, I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I’m restless, I’m bored, I’m _ sad _ ,” Elena said, and upon hearing this, Marianne couldn’t help but feel for her. “So yes, maybe I am doing this for me. But _ please _, I would like you to support me.”

Héloïse glared at her mother. “Support?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“Why don’t you support me, too, Maman?” Héloïse asked. At this point, Marianne had expected Héloïse to crack with emotion already, but she was proving impenetrable. “I have _ never _asked you for anything.”

“What do you want?” Elena asked.

“I’ll pose for the photos. I’ll talk to the journalist,” Héloïse said. “But you must let me go to America after Christmas.”

Elena pinched the bridge of her nose. She took a deep, shuddering breath, while looking up at her daughter, perhaps wondering how she was staying composed throughout this conversation. “Fine.” She threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. I’ll let you go to America,” she said.

Héloïse didn’t even look triumphant, just satisfied.

“I have to leave. My train is in an hour,” Elena told her. Despite everything, she managed to give her daughter a small smile. “Say goodbye to me like you did when you were a little girl.”

Héloïse nodded. From outside the door, Marianne watched as Héloïse brought both her hands to her lips, kissing her fingertips. She held her hands out to her mother’s cheeks, gently cradling her mother’s face.

Elena shut her eyes. Mother and daughter stood there like that for a moment, and then Héloïse withdrew her hands.

As quietly as she could, Marianne walked away and headed upstairs.

* * *

“You were listening to me and Maman,” Héloïse told Marianne, as Marianne rearranged furniture for her. They agreed to try shooting Héloïse’s portraits that morning.

Marianne looked up from the chair that she was pushing into place. “Did your mother know I was there, too?” she asked.

“No,” Héloïse said. “Even I wasn’t sure that you were there. But when I walked out into the hallway, I could smell chlorine.”

“Oh.” Marianne felt heat rising to her cheeks. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“No need to apologise,” Héloïse said. “People have walked in on worse conversations between us.”

“I’m still surprised that you agreed to be photographed,” Marianne said. 

Héloïse shrugged, but offered no reply.

Marianne stepped back from the chair. “Sit here.”

Héloïse obliged.

“How familiar are you at posing for portraits?” Marianne asked. As far as she knew, there were no photographs hanging anywhere in the house.

“We had annual family portraits when we were little,” Héloïse said. “It’s been years. And the lady who does the ID photos at the Sorbonne is no Annie Leibovitz.”

At this, Marianne snorted. “That’s okay. I’ll talk you through it.” She took a few more steps backwards and gave Héloïse instructions. “Face a little bit that way. A bit more. This way, you’ll be turning your head towards me.” She made a suggestion on how Héloïse should position her hands. When she didn’t quite understand the instruction, Marianne reached out and gently arranged her hands for her. “Is that comfortable?”

“It is,” Héloïse said.

“All right,” Marianne said. She made her way to the stool and sat down.

Héloïse’s eyes drifted to the light stands. “You’re not gonna set up any lights?”

“No. We’ll try it with the natural lighting first,” Marianne told her, not looking up from adjusting settings on her camera. “All right.” Marianne looked at Héloïse through the viewfinder. “Look at me.”

Héloïse did.

Even through the camera lens, the coldness of her eyes sent a chill down Marianne’s spine.

* * *

Over the last week and a half she had been at the château, Marianne would sit down to have dinner with Sophie. They would swap stories about their days. She enjoyed Sophie’s enthusiasm, and how easily she was moved. Her stories about university were infinitely more exciting than what was happening in Marianne’s day, which mostly involved editing, taking some more photos, swimming, going for walks, thumbing through the bookcases in the second sitting room, and sometimes, when she was truly bored, laying in bed while smoking a joint and listening to music.

Tonight, though, Sophie was quiet. She picked at her food absently.

“Everything okay?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse walked into the kitchen. She joined them for dinner, too, on some nights, but more often, she would fix herself something and bring it up to the sitting room so she could eat while she read or watched films. She took a plate and cutlery from the drawer and began serving herself. She looked at Marianne, then Sophie, and then back to Marianne again.

Marianne realised that Sophie may be hesitant to say what she wanted in front of Héloïse. She wanted to give some unspoken signal, something that would indicate to Sophie that she herself hadn’t come upon anything that fazed Héloïse yet.

Héloïse sat down beside Sophie. “You’re not usually this quiet,” she observed.

“My ex-boyfriend is threatening to leak a sex tape of us,” Sophie blurted out.

Fork halfway to her mouth, Marianne gasped. “What? Why?”

“He claims that I’ve been saying bad things about him behind his back, and that I needed to stop or else he’d upload it,” Sophie said.

“Did he send you proof?” Héloïse asked.

“There’s a snippet of it on a Tumblr account he’s made anonymously,” Sophie said. “He said he would start following my friends.”

“Not that this justifies it, but were you saying anything about him?” Marianne asked.

Sophie shook her head vehemently. “No! He’s paranoid and insecure, that’s all! That’s part of the reason why we broke up,” she said. Tears sprang to her eyes. “If my parents find out, they’ll ask me to move back to Ouessant out of shame.”

“Surely we could go to the police about this,” Héloïse said.

“As if they would take those complaints seriously,” Marianne said. She hated to be pessimistic, but she had seen this before, in her social circles in Paris and Saint-Etienne. “Some of the men I worked with, they use their status and their reputation to blackmail women into doing what they want.” She huffed. “My ex-boyfriend was one of them.”

Héloïse blinked rapidly. “This has happened to you, too?”

“Not to me, thankfully,” Marianne answered. “I heard he was doing it to other women, though.”

“That’s horrible!” Sophie said. “What did they end up doing about it?”

“They took matters into their own hands,” Marianne said.

Héloïse nodded determinedly. “So that’s what we’re going to do as well.” And, as if deciding that the conversation was over, she wordlessly tucked into her food.

* * *

The following day, Héloïse turned up to Marianne’s room wearing black trousers with an emerald green blouse. The blouse was pretty, but it was made out of synthetics, probably a combination of polyester and viscose. Marianne had seen enough of Héloïse to know that she preferred clothing made out of natural materials.

“What’s this?” she asked Héloïse, from her place on the stool.

“Maman requested that I be photographed in this blouse,” Héloïse said.

“You don’t look comfortable wearing it,” Marianne said.

“Apparently it brings out my eyes.”

Marianne didn’t agree or disagree.

Héloïse didn’t wait for her to. She shrugged. “All I’m thinking about is Northwestern.”

Marianne gestured to the chair. “To wind her up, we should shoot in black and white,” she joked.

Héloïse chuckled as she sat down.

“Stay that way,” Marianne said. She held down the shutter button, snapping photographs in quick succession.

“Why did you take so many?” Héloïse asked.

“Oftentimes, the best photograph captures something that’s fleeting,” Marianne said.

Héloïse frowned. “Not everything is fleeting,” she said. “Some feelings are deep.”

Marianne didn’t know how to respond to that. She looked down at her camera screen, pretending to double-check her settings.

“How do you want me to pose?” Héloïse asked.

“I want to get an idea of you.” Marianne hesitated. “I want to find whatever it is underneath the anger.”

“The anger,” Héloïse simply said.

“I don’t know if you know this, but you come off as quite an angry person,” Marianne said.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry,” Marianne said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“You haven’t,” Héloïse said. But it was obvious that her pleasant mood had passed.

“I have, I can tell,” Marianne said. “When you’re feeling defensive, you hunch your shoulders.”

Self-consciously, Héloïse straightened herself, pulling her shoulders back.

Marianne continued: “When you’re about to argue back, you tilt your chin upwards.”

“I get it. You’re a _ photographer _ , you’ve been _ observing _ me,” Héloïse said curtly.

“I’m sorry. It’s part of the work,” Marianne said. “This is why I much prefer being behind the camera.”

Héloïse’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t hide you as well as you think. Put it down,” she said, referring to the camera in Marianne’s hands. She waited until Marianne complied. “Come here. Next to me.”

Marianne stood next to Héloïse.

“Crouch down,” Héloïse said.

Marianne did.

“Now, look.” Héloïse pointed at the stool that Marianne would sit on. “When you’re observing me, who do you think I’m observing?”

Taken aback, Marianne simply stared at her camera, which was on the stool.

“Your eyes widen when you can’t respond, even if you badly want to,” Héloïse told her. She smirked at Marianne. “And you purse your lips when you’re about to deny something.” She held Marianne’s gaze, her blue-grey eyes blazing with barely concealed fire.

Marianne adjusted her expression, trying not to let Héloïse get the better of her. Breaking off their eye contact, she returned to the stool, picking up her camera. “Let’s continue,” she said, sitting back down.

* * *

Héloïse came to dinner with a book in her hand. She seemed to not have realised that she had it until she put it on the table so that she could start eating.

“Which one’s that?” Sophie asked.

“_ Brooklyn _, by Colm Tóibín,” Héloïse said.

“Any good?”

“It’s one of my favourites,” Héloïse admitted. Her fingers graze lightly on the book’s cover, and that was when Marianne noticed how well-worn the copy was. “Would you like to read it when I’m finished?”

Sophie pulled the book towards her to inspect it. “My English isn’t the greatest,” she said.

“A French edition has just been printed,” Héloïse told her. “I already ordered it from my favourite bookstore in Paris. It should come in the post soon. You can read it first.”

“What’s it about?” Sophie asked. “It’s okay to spoil what happens. I know the experience of actually reading it will be different.”

Héloïse told her.

Sophie listened intently, and so did Marianne. She found that she appreciated Héloïse like this, talking at length about a book that she loved. It was the most animated Marianne had seen her. Héloïse’s voice, usually low and reserved, lilted as she talked about the novel.

“Ultimately, it’s a story about what home means,” Héloïse concluded. “Is it where you were born? Is it where you grew up? Is it where your family is? Or how about where your heart is?”

“It could be all those different places,” Marianne said.

“Yes,” Sophie agreed. “I think my heart is here, in Brest, but when I think of Ouessant, it’s still home. But I don't see myself settling down there.”

Marianne leaned forward. “Isn’t that a crucial part of the human experience?” she challenged Héloïse. “Realising that you have all of these different places and different things and different people that you have to ration your heart out to?”

“I agree, but the protagonist recognises that struggle of wanting to be equally loyal to each of the places she considers home. She realises that in the end, she still has to make the choice,” Héloïse responded.

After dinner, they cleaned up together. Marianne washed the dishes and cutlery while Héloïse dried them. While Sophie stored them in the cupboards, Marianne poured glasses of wine. They sat at the table once more, in their usual places: Marianne at the head of the table, Sophie at her right, and Héloïse beside Sophie. They drank wine and swapped stories. Sophie talked about university. Marianne reminisced of her years at PCA. Even Héloïse offered a couple of anecdotes about her undergraduate years at the Sorbonne.

Into their second bottle of wine, Sophie managed to talk Héloïse into reading from _ Brooklyn _, but instead of reading directly from the page, she would translate the English into French first. Héloïse gamely accepted the challenge. “Should I start from the beginning?” she asked Sophie.

Sophie shook her head. “Just start from where your bookmark is.”

Nodding, Héloïse opened the book and removed her bookmark. 

Marianne caught a glimpse of pages, heavily annotated in pencil. Clearly, Héloïse had already made an attempt at translating some of it.

Héloïse cleared her throat. She lifted the book towards her face and began reading. She spoke haltingly at first, with pauses in mid-sentence, and Marianne could almost see the translations occurring in her eyes. Eventually, Héloïse found her rhythm. She was reading slowly, but her translations were more fluid. She occasionally corrected herself, finding more appropriate words to express what the original text said.

Marianne couldn’t take her eyes off Héloïse. She couldn’t stop listening to her. They might have begun at the tail-end of the story, but Marianne felt that she had been there since the start.

* * *

Marianne guessed that Héloïse had to be aware of how attractive she was, but she could see that Héloïse had no idea what to do with it in the presence of a camera. “Read the book for real,” she told her. “Pretend I’m not here.”

“That’s impossible,” Héloïse said through gritted teeth.

They were in the château’s second sitting room, which Marianne had figured out was Héloïse’s space. The books and DVDs all seemed to belong to her. The two of them had discussed over breakfast about how they should take photographs that show Héloïse in her element. So far, everything on Marianne’s camera was of her looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“Okay.” Marianne lowered the camera. She was going to try a different approach. “You told me that you’re going to do your doctorate in comparative literature. I’m not exactly sure what that is.”

“It’s not a thinly veiled attempt to distract me, that’s for sure,” Héloïse said.

“I’m not veiling anything. I do want to know,” Marianne retorted. “_Y__ou _looked me up before I got here.”

If Héloïse was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. “My mother was going to leave me here alone with you for a week,” she said. “I was doing my due diligence.”

“I came here not knowing anything about you,” Marianne said.

“Only that I was the Comtesse’s daughter.”

“I’m slowly learning that you’re more than that,” Marianne said.

Héloïse rolled her eyes.

Marianne just shrugged back in response.

Sighing, Héloïse relented. “I consider comparative literature to be interdisciplinary. It’s linguistics and literary analysis and philosophy combined. It’s looking at how and why different cultures tell similar stories, whether it’s similar in structure or in theme or in character archetypes,” she began. “To be able to study it at a high level, you have to prove proficiency in three languages.”

“What’s your third, then? Besides French and English.”

“German.”

“Interesting,” Marianne said. “So you just read stories and make generalisations about them?”

“You make it sound so simple.” Héloïse scoffed. “Those generalisations must be backed with detailed evidence, and are presented as the products of years of writing and research.”

“Well, forgive _ me _,” Marianne said, feeling a little satisfied at having wound Héloïse up. “I went to art school for a reason.”

“Don’t discount yourself. You went to PCA. Their research pedagogy is robust.” Héloïse smirked, before adding: “For an art school.”

Without even composing in the viewfinder, she aimed her camera and pressed the shutter. She knew it was going to be a great image without even checking. Héloïse was slouched in her chair, a closed book in one hand, a finger inside to keep her from losing her page. She was looking straight at Marianne, a new warmth underlying the haughtiness she had grown used to.

“Perfect,” Marianne said, before she even realised she was saying it.

* * *

Though Marianne had been enjoying her daily routine in the château, far removed from the hustle of Saint-Etienne, she found herself struck with cabin fever. When she relayed this to Sophie over breakfast one day, Sophie suggested that they should go dancing in town.

“At a club?” Marianne had asked. “It’ll be full of students and young people.”

“Stop talking like you’re so old. You’re not that much older,” Sophie had retorted.

By evening, they had convinced Héloïse to join them. They got into Héloïse’s station wagon and she drove them into town. They followed Sophie into one of the clubs that she claimed to frequent.

The club was dimly lit, and the music booming, but the crowd inside weren’t too wild yet; it was still early. Sophie ran into a group of her friends, leaving Marianne and Héloïse standing on the edge of the dance floor together.

Marianne watched the bodies moving on the dance floor with abandon, admiring the lack of self-consciousness in other people. She turned to check on Héloïse, only to find that she was no longer standing beside her.

Sophie sidled up to her. “I found out where my stupid ex-boyfriend is currently living,” she told Marianne.

“Shall we pay him a visit?” Marianne asked.

“Yup, but we need a plan,” Sophie said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

A cheerful, pulsing synth riff began to play, causing Sophie to clap her hands gleefully. By the time Rihanna’s dreamy voice sang over the synths, about shadows crossing and what it took to come alive, Sophie had led Marianne to the middle of the dance floor, and got lost in the crowd just as quickly.

Marianne, on instinct, felt her body move to the beat. She closed her eyes, trying to forget that there were people around her, trying to just focus on the music. The song soared to its chorus, and Marianne opened her eyes.

There, right in front of her, was Héloïse, her eyes fixed on Marianne. The club’s blue and white strobe lights cast otherworldly shadows on her face. She was dancing, _ really _dancing, and Marianne felt like she shouldn’t be so surprised. In the brief time they had known each other, Héloïse had done nothing but show Marianne who she was.

Marianne found herself grinning at Héloïse.

Héloïse grinned back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just seem to be blowing through these chapters! My daily routine has been consumed with writing this fic, and I'm happy to say that I've finally finished it. I will get the last part uploaded sometime over the next couple of days. I find that I edit quite scrupulously after finishing the initial draft, so I need the time to do that.
> 
> Thank you again for all your comments. It makes me happy that this fic is making you happy.
> 
> In this chapter, we go from 0 to 100 in about five seconds. There's some slight misandry. There's some Shakespeare. You want it? This chapter has got it. It's a big box store of emotions. Enjoy!

It was Héloïse’s idea to go to the beach. She suggested that Marianne should take photos of her surfing.

They got up early, before Sophie was up, and they left in Héloïse’s station wagon after breakfast. They drove west to Le Minou. “It’s where I first learned to surf,” Héloïse told Marianne.

“Why were you drawn to surfing?” asked Marianne. She bore a small fascination with Héloïse’s relationship with the water. Having grown up in Paris, she couldn’t imagine feeling similarly about the Seine.

“It’s a good hobby for someone who spent their teenage years being dragged around Cannes and Nice,” Héloïse said. “However, the surf in Bretagne is incomparable.”

In the parking lot, Marianne prepared her equipment, trying not to watch Héloïse too closely as she got herself ready.

Héloïse removed her workout pants and stepped into her wetsuit. When she had pulled the wetsuit up to her waist, she shed her hoodie and long-sleeved t-shirt, revealing that she was wearing her swimsuit under her clothes. She then slid her arms into the sleeves of the wetsuit. She reached around for the toggle at the back to zip it up, and then she folded her clothes neatly and placed them in the backseat.

Board under her arm, she looked at Marianne. “I’ll lend you a scarf. It’s windy out there.”

They walked down to the beach, with Marianne following Héloïse, the borrowed scarf wrapped around her neck, covering her mouth and chin. Héloïse was right about the wind. Even with the scarf, Marianne had to turn her collar up to further protect herself.

Héloïse, as usual, seemed unfazed. She jogged to the water. When she was far enough, she lay prone on her board and swam towards a wave. Héloïse started turning herself around, so that she was facing the shore. Her arms worked hard to paddle away from a wave that looked like it was chasing her. In a quick burst of energy, Héloïse got into a standing position on the board, and rode the small wave easily.

Marianne watched her do this once more before she was able to work out a good spot to photograph her from. She snapped photographs liberally, capturing Héloïse in the different stages of catching a wave. 

Three times, Héloïse wiped out and fell into the water. Her blonde head would reemerge after a few seconds, and she would swim towards her board. She would take a moment to sit on her board and catch her breath before pursuing another wave. She never looked happy about falling off, but she didn’t look dismayed nor defeated.

Héloïse was prone on her board, but there was something different about the way she held her head. Marianne tried to figure out why that was, and tried to watch the water from Héloïse’s perspective. She didn’t know how to read the waves, but she thought it may have something to do with that. She watched as Héloïse swam towards a forming wave.

In a fluid motion, Héloïse turned towards the shore, and began paddling, the fastest she had ever paddled. 

Marianne saw this all through her lens and snapped away. She had spotted it now: the biggest wave yet.

Propelled by the water behind her, Héloïse jumped up to a standing position. She was jerky at first, but managed to correct and anchor herself. She guided her board over the wave, and even through the camera, Marianne could see how tense she was, from her jaw and neck to her thighs. The wave petered out and Héloïse let herself fall into the water. It took a few seconds for her to break the surface. She hoisted herself back up on her board, with a big smile on her face.

Marianne did not stop taking photos at all.

After a few more waves, Héloïse walked out of the water. She placed her board on the beach. She let her hair out of its ponytail. When Marianne reached her, she noticed that her cheeks were flushed and that she was slightly out of breath. 

“Good shots,” Héloïse said, with a quirked eyebrow.

With her face covered by the scarf, Marianne took the opportunity to smile at how, most of the time, Héloïse seemed incapable of phrasing questions. “We’ll see.”

Héloïse picked her board back up. She walked towards the showers. Even after an hour or so of being battered by waves, Héloïse was still going fast enough that Marianne had to jog after her.

Marianne waited until Héloïse had finished rinsing off in the outdoor shower, and then they headed back to the parking lot.

The shower must have been cold, because Héloïse was huffing and her teeth were chattering. She fastened her board to the roof of her car. And then she reached around to unzip her wetsuit, but her trembling fingers kept missing the toggle.

“I got it.” Marianne stepped forward and grasped the toggle. She shifted her hand upwards, so that she was holding the actual zipper, and tugged it downwards.

Héloïse turned around to face her, with a peculiar expression. Her heavy gaze was fixed on Marianne. She peeled off the top half of her wetsuit, letting it fall over her waist. She took a step towards Marianne.

Marianne’s fingers curled around the scarf. She tugged it to uncover her mouth. She took a step towards Héloïse.

As if by unspoken agreement, their lips met.

Marianne felt it all at once. Héloïse's firm mouth. Her clammy swimsuit. Her urgent hands, gripping at Marianne's waist. Her lips were coarse and tasted of salt. Marianne's hand found her way into Héloïse's hair, soft and tangled by seawater.

They pulled away at the same time.

Marianne tried to meet Héloïse’s eyes, but Héloïse seemed to be avoiding hers.

Héloïse moved around to the other side of the car and managed to get herself into dry clothes, while Marianne got inside the front passenger seat and stared straight ahead, replaying the moment that had just passed.

She wondered who would be the first to break the silence, this stalemate that they had wandered into.

They did not talk on the drive home.

As soon as they arrived, Héloïse unpacked her things and disappeared through the side door, leaving Marianne alone, standing in front of the château.

* * *

After a shower and a nap, Marianne viewed the photographs on her computer. There was not one bad frame; it was a successful coincidence of lighting, setting and subject. She narrowed it down to twenty of her favourites and began editing those. The sun lowered into the horizon outside her window, and Marianne realised she was hungry.

Marianne went downstairs to find Sophie helping herself from a ceramic dish. She followed her lead. “What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s chicken with some sort of mushroom sauce,” Sophie told her. “Héloïse made it.”

They sat down at the table and started eating. The dish was warm and hearty. “Where  _ is  _ Héloïse?” Marianne asked, between mouthfuls.

“I think she’s in her room. She said she already ate,” Sophie said.

Marianne swallowed. It seemed like Héloïse was avoiding her. Had she made her uncomfortable at the beach? Had she been so presumptuous to make a move? Marianne’s appetite decreased with every bite, as she spiralled into doubt.

* * *

Marianne and Sophie watched a couple of shows on television before calling it a night. Sophie used the bathroom first, and then Marianne went in to get ready for bed. When she returned to her room, she was surprised to see Héloïse standing there, wearing sweatpants and the navy wool sweater that she seemed to be fond of. Marianne shut her bedroom door.

Immediately, Marianne crossed the room. When they were face to face, she paused, before closing the distance between them. She burrowed her face into where Héloïse’s neck and shoulder met. She inhaled deeply, taking in the smells of shower gel and laundry detergent. “I thought I scared you off,” she whispered.

Héloïse wrapped her arms around Marianne, feather-light at first, and then with a firm, protective pressure. “You’re right,” she said. “I am scared.” She dipped her head, resting it against Marianne’s shoulder.

Marianne could hear Héloïse breathing. And then she felt herself being turned around, so that her back is against Héloïse's front. Héloïse’s hands slid down from her shoulders to her waist. Marianne couldn’t suppress a gasp as one hand moved up to her chest, right over her heart. She was certain that Héloïse could feel it racing against her palm.

“It feels like you live in my head,” Héloïse whispered.

“Have you been dreaming about me?” Marianne asked.

“No,” Héloïse said. “I’ve been thinking about you.” Her hand glided further upwards. Her fingers grazed Marianne’s lips.

Marianne’s mouth fell open at the touch. She felt Héloïse’s fingers gently hold her chin, and Héloïse’s other hand, at her waist, pulling her closer. Héloïse kissed her deeply, and Marianne yielded to her, feeling relieved yet also excited, her heart pounding in her ears. She turned around so that she was facing Héloïse. Her own hands explored, roaming over Héloïse's strong shoulders, her soft stomach.

Breathing hard, Héloïse began to unbutton Marianne’s shirt.

Marianne shrugged her shirt off, and then reached for the hem of Héloïse’s sweater. They broke off their kiss so that she could pull the sweater, and Héloïse’s grey t-shirt, over her head.

As Héloïse tossed the items of clothing to the floor, her hungry eyes met Marianne’s.

Marianne could no longer bear to be apart from her.

* * *

It was later than usual by the time Marianne woke up enough to want to get out of bed. It was easy enough to stay, as every time she opened her eyes, she saw Héloïse’s messy head of blonde hair peeking out from under the covers beside her.

Marianne reached for her phone to look at the time. She put it back down, and turned to move closer to Héloïse. She threw an arm over her side. She kissed her bare shoulder. “Wake up,” she said gently.

Héloïse murmured unintelligibly.

“What’s that?”

Héloïse opened her eyes. She rolled onto her back and looked up at Marianne. She had a dreamy smile on her face. “We should go for a swim,” she said.

And so they went. They got out of bed, put their swimsuits on, and headed down to the pool together. They swam lazily, enjoying the warm water in the cold morning air. At one point, Marianne emerged from dunking her head underwater to Héloïse reaching out to pull her in for a kiss. The way Héloïse overwhelmed her senses was intoxicating. Marianne simply melted into her. She couldn’t get enough. When Héloïse pulled away, smirking, and quickly swam away from her, all Marianne could do was watch.

Eventually, both of them got hungry. They got out of the pool, showered and dressed, and went down to the kitchen. Héloïse made crêpes while Marianne prepared coffee in the cafetière. 

They sat down at the table together. Marianne poured coffee for the two of them, and put a dash of milk in Héloïse’s mug, the way she liked it. Héloïse carefully sprinkled lemon juice and powdered sugar on two crêpes. She folded them up in little cones and pushed the plate towards Marianne, and then she started on a plate for herself.

“I’m so impressed,” Marianne told Héloïse. “I only make food to feed myself. I don’t exactly enjoy eating what I make.”

Héloïse shrugged. “We just had  _ that  _ night, and it’s my  _ cooking _ that impressed you.”

Marianne laughed. “Okay, so I’m impressed by  _ other  _ things, too.”

“Really?” Héloïse raised a cheeky eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Not in front of the food,” Marianne joked, feeling her cheeks flush.

Héloïse laughed. “ _ Now  _ you’re being prudish.”

They spent hours in the second sitting room having a long, meandering conversation about anything and everything, interrupted only by when they couldn’t resist the urge to kiss each other. She and Héloïse may differ vastly in temperament, but they had similar values, and saw things in similar ways. It was the first time in Marianne’s life when she felt that she was pursuing something with a true equal. Her match.

It was late in the afternoon when Sophie, having returned from class, walked into the sitting room. “Tonight’s the night, ladies,” she said.

“Sorry?” Marianne asked.

“We’re going to my ex’s house, remember?”

Marianne and Héloïse looked at each other.

“Unless you don’t want to come anymore…” Sophie said. “That’s fine by me.” The tentative look on her face showed that it actually wasn’t.

Héloïse gave Marianne a subtle nod.

Marianne turned to Sophie. “No, we’re still coming,” she said. “After we eat, right?”

Sophie, looking relieved, nodded.

Héloïse stood up from the couch and smoothed down her shirt. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

* * *

They drove into Brest and Sophie directed them to an apartment block not far from the university. They climbed three flights of stairs, and walked down the corridor. Sophie stopped in front of a particular door. She looked at Marianne and Héloïse.

“Let’s do this,” Marianne told her.

Sophie knocked on the door.

A stocky young man, with dark blonde hair and a wispy moustache, answered the door. He looked sickeningly gleeful upon seeing Sophie. “You’re here,” he said, almost gently, as if he hadn’t been wreaking psychological havoc on her.

“This isn’t a social visit,” Sophie said, pushing past him and marching into the apartment.

The man remained smug. “Really? Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?” He followed Sophie into the apartment. “If I had known that was all it took to get you to come see me again…” He trailed off as soon as he noticed that there were people walking behind him. He turned around slowly and spotted Marianne and Héloïse. “Bodyguards?” he inquired sarcastically.

Marianne looked past him to Sophie. “Find his laptop,” she said.

“Is this about the video?” the man asked. “Come on, Sophie, I was just bluffing. I just wanted you to talk to me again.”

Sophie, who had been looking around for the laptop, paused. Her dark eyes were furious as she strode across the room. In one sudden motion, she drew her hand back and slapped the man across the face.

Marianne covered her mouth to hide her gasp. Beside her, she heard Héloïse swallow.

“Sophie.” The man blinked tears from his eyes. “Does it really have to be like this?”

“You ask that question like you’re not the one who started it,” Sophie fired back.

The man smiled down at her, a smile that caused Marianne’s stomach to twist unpleasantly. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he looked at Marianne and Héloïse again. “Wait a second,” he said. “I know you.” He was addressing Héloïse.

“Do you?” Héloïse asked.

The man approached them to have a closer look. Marianne expected him to recognise Héloïse as Elena’s daughter. But instead, he said: “You taught a series of seminars at the university last year for the masters students.”

“Oh, yes, Guillaume’s class. What a lovely man,” Héloïse said. “Is he your graduate supervisor?”

The man bit his lip. “I’m not telling you that.”

Héloïse waved him off dismissively. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s easy enough to find out.”

“Found it.” Sophie came out from one of the bedrooms, laptop in hand.

“Bring it here,” Marianne said. “Is your dissertation on here?”

“You can’t just take that away!” As Sophie tried to walk past him, he grabbed her by the arm. “My research is on there! I could call the police and they’ll charge you for burglary!”

“We don’t have to take it away if you delete the video,” Héloïse said. “I remember you from the seminars. I’m sure Guillaume wouldn’t be too pleased if he had to bring one of his more articulate students to the disciplinary council.”

“They don’t need to be here,” the man appealed to Sophie. “We can just talk, you and me.”

Sophie wrenched her arm from the man. “I am not talking to you, and they’re not going anywhere,” she said. She opened the laptop and faced the screen towards him. “Come on. Delete the video. Off Tumblr and off your hard drive.” She placed it on the dining table and, hands on her hips, waited.

With the three women looking over his shoulder, he did what he was told.

“And all other copies of it?” Marianne asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“External hard drives, USBs?”

“No!” he insisted.

“I don’t believe him.” Héloïse went inside the bedroom and came out holding an external hard drive. “We’re gonna take this with us. If we find more copies of the video on it, consider it destroyed, along with your academic career.”

“My work is backed up on there!” the man protested.

Héloïse dropped the hard drive into her jacket pocket. “It’s nearly 2013. Start keeping backups on the cloud,” she said. “Guillaume may be hearing from me.” She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

Marianne and Sophie followed her.

* * *

It wasn’t until Héloïse parked the car back at the château that the three of them collapsed in exhilarated, nearly hysterical laughter. None of them were in a hurry to get inside.

“What an idiot,” Marianne said.

“You don’t think he’ll send the cops after us?” Sophie asked.

“We’ll worry about that if it actually does happen,” Héloïse said, in a tone that suggested that it wouldn’t. “I think we deserve some wine.”

“I agree,” Marianne said.

“Is he really a good student?” Sophie asked Héloïse.

Héloïse scoffed. “Of course not,” she said. “He’s a blowhard.”

At this, the three of them began laughing again.

* * *

The next morning, after breakfast and a swim, Héloïse brought her books to Marianne’s bedroom. She read while Marianne edited photographs on her laptop.

“Oh, I hope you’re not using that one,” Héloïse said, referring to the photograph displayed on Marianne’s screen. It was one of her in the green blouse. Héloïse had been caught off guard in that particular shot. Her gaze was directed to the floor, and she held her hands in an awkward position.

“I’m not,” Marianne said. “But I like it anyway.”

“You do?”

Marianne nodded. “You’re so intense,” she said. “You always look like there’s a storm going on in your mind.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Héloïse said.

“No, I’m not,” Marianne said.

Héloïse scowled.

“Don’t pout like that,” Marianne teased. She leaned forward to kiss her.

Héloïse sighed into her mouth. Her hands released the book she was reading, and cupped Marianne’s face instead.

“Wait,” Marianne murmured, briefly breaking the kiss. She shut her laptop and slid it underneath the sofa bed. She returned to a waiting Héloïse.

* * *

Marianne picked a joint out of her tin. She placed it in between her lips and lit it. She took a drag of the joint, and then passed it to Héloïse, who did the same, without taking her eyes off Marianne.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” Marianne said.

“I do,” Héloïse said.

“Yes?”

Héloïse exhaled. “When was the first time you were with a woman?”

“In what way?” Marianne asked.

“In any way,” Héloïse answered.

Marianne took the joint from her and had another puff, before replying. “Secondary school. I was fifteen, my older brother was seventeen, and he ran around with a bunch of slackers.” She smiled at the memory. “There was this girl in the group. She was a troublemaker, too, but looking back, I think she had more sense than all the others put together. I wanted to be around her all the time.”

Héloïse nodded, prompting Marianne to continue.

“One day, my brother didn’t go to school. He was sick or something. But this girl found me at school, and she said she’d walk home with me so she could go see him,” Marianne said. “It was a twenty-minute walk or so. We ended up kissing in this alleyway just down the road from my house. I think we were there for half an hour, undisturbed. She never ended up coming to see my brother. I think both our heads were spinning.”

“And what happened afterwards? Between the two of you?”

“Nothing,” Marianne replied. “The next time I saw her, she was with my brother and their friends, and she acted like nothing ever happened.”

“How did you feel about that?” Héloïse asked.

“I don’t know. I think I expected it.”

Héloïse held her hand out for the joint. “I had a girlfriend in Paris.”

“Was she your first?” Marianne asked.

“My first serious one, yes.” Héloïse took a deep drag and exhaled slowly. “When I was going to school here, I didn’t have much of a social life. My sister was a lot more popular, even more so when she started acting. I noticed other girls, but I was too absorbed in books and schoolwork to think about it too much. That changed when I started at the Sorbonne. Women started to notice me.”

Marianne let her eyes roam over Héloïse’s body, naked, her bottom half covered loosely by the sheet. “I mean, I understand,” she said, smiling.

Héloïse started to blush, but made no attempt to cover herself. “I was nineteen when I went on a date for the first time, with someone from class,” she said. “I went out casually with two other women afterwards. And then I got into a relationship. We split up before I graduated from my masters.”

“May I ask why?”

“We spent too much time thinking that the other was out of our league. It made us insecure. It made us fight a lot,” Héloïse said. She gave Marianne the joint, watched as Marianne took a puff. She shifted on the pillows so that she was more upright. “There’s a poem, Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare. My favourite of his.”

“Of  _ course _ you have a favourite sonnet,” Marianne teased.

“A sonnet has fourteen lines, right? So in Sonnet 29, Shakespeare spends the first eight lines feeling sorry for himself, being a sad sack. He’s jealous that other people are seemingly better than him.” Héloïse quoted in English: “ _ Wishing me like to one more rich in hope/Featured like him, like him with friend’s possessed _ .” She switched back to French. “You assume that he’s going to spend the rest of the poem being pathetic. But then, in the  _ eighth  _ line, there’s a change. He remembers the person who loves him. He likens this recollection to a lark that sings at daybreak. It makes him realise that things aren’t bad after all.”

Marianne couldn’t help but be moved by this. She wanted to tell Héloïse how extraordinary she was, how incredible it was that she could riff on Shakespeare like she just did, how amazing it was to be someone with all these thoughts in her head. She raked a hand through her hair. “You called Shakespeare a sad sack,” she eventually said.

Héloïse chuckled. “My point is that I think people waste too much time thinking about how they could be better, or how their partner could be better. It creates instability,” she said. “If you really wanted to grow together in love, it would just be an unconscious decision.”

* * *

They had to come down for dinner eventually.

Sophie was already in the kitchen setting the table. She didn't even bat an eyelid upon seeing them enter together.

They started eating.

"By the way, your mother called," Sophie said to Héloïse.

“What did she say?” Héloïse asked.

“She’s coming back the day after tomorrow,” Sophie said. “She’s asking if you could come pick her up from the train station at three PM.”

Héloïse frowned. “She could have texted me,” she said.

Sophie simply shrugged.

After cleaning up, everyone went their separate ways to get ready for bed. In her pyjamas, Marianne retired to her room and put her earphones on. She lay back on her bed, listening to music on her iPod, when her door creaked open.

“Marianne?” Héloïse stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. She wore pyjama pants and her navy hoodie. “I’m going to sleep here tonight.”

Marianne nodded. She scooted to the left side of the bed, making room for Héloïse.

Héloïse unzipped her hoodie and tossed it on the armchair. She was only wearing a grey tank top underneath. She crawled into bed, pulling the covers on top of her.

Marianne lay on her side and watched as Héloïse made herself comfortable. She had a warm feeling in her chest. Marianne didn’t have the biggest romantic tendencies, and she was acutely aware of the fact that she hadn’t known Héloïse for very long. But she couldn’t help thinking that their souls had shared roots.

“What are you listening to?” Héloïse asked.

Marianne took her left earbud out and handed it to Héloïse.

* * *

Marianne prepared breakfast for them the next morning. She had found croissants in the bread basket, so she put them out with jam and butter. She made coffee. And then she went back upstairs to her bedroom. 

Héloïse was still in bed, not sleeping, but not fully awake either.

“Time to eat,” Marianne told her.

Héloïse nodded. She sat up and stretched her arms over her head. Slowly, she rose from the bed, running her fingers through her dishevelled hair. She walked over to Marianne and gave her a peck on the lips. “Bonjour,” she whispered.

Marianne nearly giggled. “Bonjour,” she said back.

After breakfast, they sat in the second sitting room. Marianne had brought her laptop downstairs and showed Héloïse her final collection of photographs. They scrolled through the photographs of Elena, and Héloïse stayed mostly silent, though at times she couldn’t resist making snarky comments about her mother. And then they got onto Héloïse’s photographs.

“I like that one,” Héloïse said, pointing at the photograph of her on the screen. It had been taken in the same sitting room. She was reclined on one of the couches, an open book resting on her knee, her thoughtful gaze levelled at the camera, her mouth bearing traces of a knowing smile. Her hair was unruly and her shirt was rumpled.

“Yes, I think it captures your spirit best,” Marianne said.

“You’re an excellent photographer,” Héloïse said.

“Or maybe I just got to know you better,” Marianne said.

Héloïse smiled. “Yes, maybe,” she said. “Show me the ones from Le Minou.”

Marianne tapped the right arrow key until they got to the photographs of Héloïse surfing. She lingered on one in particular, of Héloïse riding a wave, her body crouched, her jaw set in concentration. “I have to be honest: looking at these makes me a little bit sad,” she said.

“How come?”

Marianne hesitated. “When your mother arrives, we’ll be back to our lives. Me in Saint-Etienne, you in America."

A dark look crossed Héloïse’s face. She stood abruptly and paced back and forth, seemingly making an effort not to look at Marianne. She stopped then whirled around. “It’s terrible,” she said. “Our story has barely begun and you’re already prepared to hold a grudge against me.”

“Our story has barely begun and it’s almost ending,” Marianne retorted.

“See, there it is,” Héloïse said. “You’re getting angry at me, because I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not angry.” It was true; she was more sad than anything.

“You are,” Héloïse said. Her eyes shone with tears. “I thought you supported me. I thought you were on my side.” She sniffed. “What were you expecting? That I’d drop everything for you?”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Marianne said. It came out more sharply than she wanted it to, and her heart pinched at the sight of Héloïse wincing.

“That’s it, then,” Héloïse said. Tears began to flow freely down her cheeks. “You think I’m cold. Worse, you think that I’ve used you.”

“I don’t -” Marianne began.

“You can believe that I'm emotionally unavailable, or that I'm non-effusive, if that makes you feel better.” Héloïse paused to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. The next sentence came out as a half-gasp: “But don’t you dare believe that I just saw you as a distraction.” With this, she turned and stomped out of the sitting room.


	4. Chapter 4

Héloïse was nowhere to be found.

Marianne searched the entire house, and eventually discovered that Héloïse’s surfboard was not in its rack by the side door. Without thinking, Marianne threw on her coat, grabbed her car keys, and drove to Le Minou.

She parked next to Héloïse’s station wagon. Heart in her throat, she practically ran down to the beach, not caring if sand got into her sneakers. There was a lone figure on a wave. Marianne’s breath caught.

Marianne watched as Héloïse steered her board towards the shore. She looked so fearless. She made it look so easy. Marianne wished she could be like her. She found many things difficult, and so far, she had gotten lucky in life, mostly because she had kept her expectations to a minimum. But Héloïse was the opposite, and Marianne envied that constant insistence for something better, something greater.

Once she got to the shallows, Héloïse hopped off the board and picked it up. She walked away from the water. She looked ahead and stopped in her tracks, finally spotting Marianne.

This time, Marianne  _ really  _ ran. She threw her arms around Héloïse, not caring if her clothes got wet. “I’m sorry,” she said, surprising herself with how much she wanted Héloïse to believe it. “I’m sorry,” she gasped again. Her face was wet and stung a little, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of the salt from her tears, or because of the seawater in Héloïse’s hair.

Héloïse just stood there for a moment. With her free hand, she gently pushed Marianne back. And then, she wrapped that same arm around Marianne’s neck and shoulders, pulling her in for a fierce kiss.

Marianne placed her hands on either side of Héloïse’s face. She recalled their first kiss, and all the other ones in between that and the one that was happening at this moment. She pulled away and sniffed, resting her forehead against Héloïse’s. She was tired of  _ just  _ being lucky. She wanted to be worthy.

* * *

They returned to the château in their respective cars. Héloïse went to put her gear away, and then disappeared into her bedroom. She came into Marianne’s bedroom, freshly showered. “I want to look at those photographs again,” she said.

Marianne opened her laptop. She went into her files. 

Héloïse settled in beside her on the sofa bed. She leaned over and nuzzled Marianne’s shoulder.

This was the biggest Marianne’s heart had ever felt, and she hated that it was going to be over soon.

“This one,” Héloïse said, pointing at the screen. It was a portrait from that day when she wore the green blouse. She was looking straight at the camera, her lips curled in a haughty smirk. “I look like a snob.”

“You’re headstrong. Formidable,” Marianne corrected. “There’s a difference, even if it’s something that doesn’t register immediately.”

“What registers immediately is arrogance,” Héloïse said.

Marianne looked at her, amused. “You’re fishing for compliments,” she said.

Héloïse shrugged in response.

After viewing the rest of the photographs, mostly in silence, Héloïse stood up and announced that she was going to make dinner. “It’ll just be the two of us. Sophie texted me,” she explained. “She’s going to a birthday party in town tonight, so she won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. I’ll help you,” Marianne said.

Héloïse gave her a small smile. “That would be nice.”

They worked together in the kitchen. Héloïse seasoned and seared the pork, and instructed to Marianne to peel and chop potatoes and carrots. She was definitely confident in the kitchen, though she never judged Marianne for her lack of culinary skills. Eventually, the meal came together. They sat down at the table. Héloïse took Sophie’s usual chair. She had opened a bottle of wine.

“This looks more expensive than usual,” Marianne commented, as she watched Héloïse pour the wine into glasses.

“It’s from Maman’s collection,” Héloïse said. Registering the look of alarm on Marianne’s face, she waved her off. “It’s fine. Maman would have never opened this.”

Marianne took a sip. “It’s good.”

“It’ll be better with the pork.”

“Who taught you to cook?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse lowered her wine glass. “ _ Larousse Gastronomique _ .” She paused. “And my ex-girlfriend. She cooked all the time. She wanted to be a food writer.”

Marianne made a face.

“I  _ know _ , but she was passionate about it. It was endearing, actually,” Héloïse said.

“You seem fond of her,” Marianne remarked. She couldn’t imagine saying similarly nice things about any of her exes.

“At some point after the end of a relationship, I think it’s healthy to find something of our past partners to be fond of. Unless they were outright terrible people, that is,” Héloïse told her. “Otherwise the memory just gives us baggage. Makes us bitter, and broken, and unprepared for someone new. Perhaps it’s not exactly  _ her _ I feel fond towards. Perhaps it’s what she gave me.”

* * *

“What’s the ISO?” Marianne asked.

“The what?” Héloïse asked. She had Marianne’s camera in her hands, and was frowning at the LCD screen.

Marianne reached out for it. “I’ll have a look.” When she got her camera back, she adjusted the settings. She looked at the lone light source: a floor lamp shining in the corner of the bedroom. “I think two-point-eight will do,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

"Two-point-eight? Is that the ISO?"

"No, it’s the aperture. How much light the lens allows," Marianne explained.

Héloïse smiled. “It’s like having a whole other language to learn so I could understand you.”

“You were probably that child who copied German conjugation tables for fun,” Marianne said.

“I only started learning German when I was twenty, but yes.”

Marianne laughed. She handed the camera to Héloïse. “To focus, press this button.” She pointed at a button near Héloïse’s thumb, before leaning back against the pillows, and adjusting the covers around her naked body.

Héloïse peered through the viewfinder. “Pull the sheet down a bit.”

Marianne shot her a look. When Héloïse remained unrelenting, she moved the covers a little bit, exposing more of her chest.

“Better,” Héloïse said. “Look at me.” She pressed the shutter. “Could you lift this?” She nudged the sheet covering Marianne’s legs.

“You would make a terrible professional photographer,” Marianne said, as she pulled on the sheet to show her bare legs.

“Which is why I’m not,” Héloïse said. “These are for me.” She looked through the viewfinder again, and then pressed the shutter. She lowered the camera and pressed the image playback button.

“Good enough?” Marianne said.

Héloïse returned the camera to Marianne.

Marianne looked at the photographs. She had never let anyone take photographs of her like these before, and they weren’t even that revealing. She realised that she liked the way she looked in them, with her messy hair, her bright eyes, and the subtle radiance of her cheeks, enhanced by the faraway glow of the warm lamp light.

“I’m going to get a glass of water,” Marianne said. “Would you like one too?”

“Sure,” Héloïse said.

Marianne crawled out of the sofa bed and pulled on her underwear. She picked up the next item of clothing within reach: Héloïse’s navy sweater. She shot her a knowing smile before leaving the bedroom.

When she returned, Héloïse had put her underwear on, too, along with Marianne’s red flannel shirt, with half the buttons done up.

Marianne handed her a glass of water. “What’s this?” she asked, nodding at the shirt.

“We should take a photo together,” Héloïse said. She drank half the glass in one go, then placed it on the table beside the sofa bed.

“Okay.” Marianne glanced at the floor lamp. “That light won’t be sufficient. Hang on.” She put her own glass on the table as well.

Héloïse sat back on the bed. She watched as Marianne moved around the room, setting up her lights.

Marianne turned the lights on one by one, and evaluated how the sofa bed looked with them on. She turned one off, and then turned the floor lamp off as well. She moved the remaining lights further away from the sofa bed. She grabbed her tripod and positioned it a few metres away from the sofa bed. “Camera,” she said to Héloïse.

Héloïse passed her the camera as she walked by.

Marianne dug into her messenger bag for a 50mm lens. She swapped this with the 20mm on her camera, and then mounted the camera on the tripod. She looked through the viewfinder to frame the shot. She moved the tripod three steps forward, and then adjusted the height and tilt, to get the composition that she wanted. “When you’re ready, just move up further on the bed,” she told Héloïse.

Héloïse did as Marianne said. “Here?”

“Yes.” Marianne instructed Héloïse to shift to the right, to make more space for her. She fished in the side pocket of her bag for her remote trigger. Satisfied with testing its connection to the camera, she climbed onto the bed and took her spot. “How do you want us to pose?” she asked Héloïse.

Héloïse arranged them so that they were propped up by the pillows. She faced the camera, and she had Marianne turn her body so that she was on her side. Héloïse placed Marianne’s leg across hers. 

Marianne found herself admiring the contrast between her light olive skin and Héloïse’s much paler complexion. She tucked the remote in the sleeve of her left hand, which she draped over Héloïse’s torso. “Place your arm around me,” she said.

“Like this?”

Marianne nodded, as Héloïse pulled her close. “Wait, actually.” She wriggled a bit, to loosen Héloïse’s grasp on her, and took the remote in her right hand instead. Her right arm was tucked between her and Héloïse, out of view of the camera, if she got their positions right. “Put your arm back.” When Héloïse did so, Marianne rested her arm on Héloïse’s stomach, then bent her elbow so that her hand was positioned over Héloïse’s heart. “There,” she murmured, looking up at Héloïse. “What now?”

“Now you kiss me.” Héloïse leaned in, and Marianne met her halfway.

She pressed the remote several times, before losing herself in the kiss. Losing herself in Héloïse. She got on her knees to place the remote on the table, next to her half-empty water glass, before straddling Héloïse and kissing her again.

* * *

They lay in bed face to face, fighting sleep, acutely aware of how little time they had left.

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse whispered.

“For what?”

“For the things I said this morning,” Héloïse answered.

Marianne squeezed her eyes shut at the memory. It was only earlier that day, but it felt like forever ago. “It’s all right,” she said.

“I was keeping score between us, and I shouldn’t have done that,” Héloïse said. “You threw me off guard. I’m used to looking for a precedent. I know how stories like ours go, and that scared me.”

Marianne prompted Héloïse to continue.

“I've already put my whole heart into this.” Héloïse bit her lip. “I guess it’s because I can see the end.”

“Does it have to be the end?” Marianne asked.

Tears welled up in Héloïse’s eyes. “I’m going to be away for five years. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sadness overcame Marianne as the realisation sunk. Sure, there was the internet. Distance, technically, was no longer an obstacle. But part of her agreed with Héloïse. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to start off like that. She wished they had more time, but she didn’t want to spend the rest of their time together on wishes. “I remember the first time I saw you. I thought that you would end up hating me,” she eventually said.

“You looked annoying, sneaking around like that,” Héloïse said. “I remember when I caught you staring at me in the car, on the way to the garage.”

“I remember when you asked me for marijuana,” Marianne said.

Héloïse smiled. “I remember the expression on your face when I read from  _ Brooklyn _ ,” she said.

“You didn’t just read. You  _ translated _ ,” Marianne said. “But what was my expression like?”

“You looked like you wanted to kiss me.”

Marianne chuckled. “I did,” she admitted.

“I felt the same way,” Héloïse said.

Marianne watched Héloïse close her eyes and succumb to sleep. She thought about what Héloïse had told her over dinner, about her choosing to keep good memories of her past partners. She wondered what stories of her Héloïse would tell the others who would come next. She wondered what she would be giving her to pass on to them.

* * *

After lunch and tidying up, Héloïse left for the train station.

Sophie was working on an essay for university while Marianne scrolled restlessly through her photographs. Sophie stopped typing for a moment to watch Marianne. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Marianne’s finger hovered over the right arrow key. “Yes,” she said.

Elena arrived in high spirits, chatting jovially to her daughter as they entered the house. Héloïse ushered her into the second sitting room, where Marianne and Sophie were. Sophie greeted Elena and then excused herself.

Marianne kissed Elena on the cheek. “How was your trip?”

“It was lovely seeing old friends,” Elena said. “I ran into your father at a restaurant one afternoon.” Her eyes glinted with humour. “He warned that you would be enjoying yourself a little too much.”

“That man. He thinks that he knows me too well,” Marianne said, not missing the sly smile on Héloïse’s face.

“Tell her about the journalist, Maman,” Héloïse said.

“Yes.” Elena clapped her hands once. “My publicist found a writer. She's sold the pitch to  _ Vanity Fair _ .” She grinned. “He will be forwarding you the contact details for the writer and her editor, so you can discuss the photographs.”

Marianne’s work in  _ Vanity Fair _ . She could hardly believe it. “That’s fantastic,” she said. She gestured to her laptop, which was open and humming on the coffee table. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.” Elena sat on the couch.

“I’m planning on heading back home tomorrow,” Marianne told her. “I have shoots that I need to prepare for.”

“Oh? What time will you go?”

“Early,” Marianne said. “I don’t want to be driving around Paris in time for the afternoon rush.”

“You’re going to Paris,” Elena said.

“Just for a couple of days. It’s too long of a drive otherwise,” Marianne said. “I’m sure Papa will want to hear about what I got up to.”

Elena smiled. "I'll write you your check after dinner."

"Thank you."

* * *

Héloïse came to her bedroom again that night, once Marianne had finished packing. They lay in bed together, talking softly, until the conversation slowly faded to sleep. Héloïse was on her back, her head turned towards Marianne. Marianne lay on her side, watching Héloïse, afraid to touch her, because she was afraid of having to let go.

* * *

Her alarm roused them the following morning.

Marianne sat up almost immediately, while Héloïse took her time. Marianne kissed her on the forehead and got dressed. She went to the kitchen, where Sophie was already puttering about.

Sophie poured Marianne a cup of coffee. “For the road,” she said. “I have to leave for class. I’ll say goodbye here.”

They hugged. “Thank you for looking after me,” Marianne told her.

“Thank  _ you _ for everything,” Sophie said. "Stay in touch."

When Marianne finished her coffee, she went upstairs to brush her teeth. She gathered her toiletries from the bathroom and returned to her bedroom to pack them away. Héloïse was sitting up on the sofa bed, zipping her hoodie up.

They walked out to Marianne’s car together, Héloïse carrying Marianne’s duffel. Marianne opened the rear hatch and they loaded her things inside. She shut the hatch and turned around, prepared to say her goodbyes. “Héloïse…” she began, before realising that she didn’t know what to say.

Héloïse had her hands stuffed in the pockets of her hoodie. “Take care,” she said.

Marianne pulled her into an embrace. 

Héloïse withdrew her hands from her pockets and held onto Marianne tightly.

When they eventually released each other, Marianne got into her car, started the engine, and drove away. She glanced at her rearview mirror and saw Héloïse in front of the château, watching her leave.

* * *

Marianne was having a quick lunch in her studio when someone knocked on her door. She stood up and brushed the crumbs off her jeans. She opened the door to a postman holding a parcel. The postman confirmed her identity and asked her to sign for it, before thanking her and getting back in his van.

Marianne sat down and opened the parcel. Inside was a CD and a note. She read the note first, written in the familiar, asymmetrical handwriting: 

_You probably own it already, but I saw this in a record store in Chicago and thought of you._ _\- H_

The CD was Sufjan Stevens’  _ Illinois _ .

Smiling, Marianne picked up her phone and composed an email to Héloïse, thanking her for the CD. After sending the email, she played it on her stereo while she went about the rest of her day. Halfway through the album, Marianne’s phone went off.

It was Héloïse’s reply. It was brief and to the point, typical for her, but what she wrote near the end made Marianne’s heart flutter:

_ I’ll be travelling to Lyon at the end of the month for a symposium. I will be there for four days, and then Maman and I may meet in Paris afterwards, as she is promoting her new film. I was hoping we could meet up and spend time together. Let me know what suits your schedule. _

Marianne went on her computer to check her schedule for the end of the month. She had four shoots booked over the middle two days of the symposium. She would just have to turn down any potential bookings for the remaining days.

The two of them had been exchanging emails at least once a week for the last three years that Héloïse had been in America. However, whenever Héloïse was in France, she only ever went to Brest or to Paris, and Marianne had always been busy. This was the first time that time seemed to align for them.

Two weeks later, she took the train up to Lyon and made her way to the university. It was the first day of the symposium. According to a programme available on the symposium’s website, Héloïse was giving a lecture at one of the university’s smaller auditoriums. Marianne arrived there in time to catch the end of it. Unsurprisingly, the auditorium was full. Most of the audience were younger people, but there were a good few middle-aged, professorial types. The front row, Marianne noted interestingly, exclusively consisted of young women, all watching Héloïse with admiration. 

And why wouldn’t they? Héloïse was a remarkably articulate teacher, weaving together different threads of thought into a coherent and relevant thesis. Even from the back of the auditorium, Marianne could see how her eyes flashed with intensity, how a smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she made a point. Héloïse paced back and forth from the podium. She looked older, more mature, wearing a white shirt tucked into dark trousers, with a charcoal blazer and brown ankle boots.

Héloïse finished her lecture to profound applause. The audience trickled out of the auditorium, a good number of them staying behind for the opportunity to have a chat with Héloïse. Marianne found a vacated seat in the back row. She sat there and waited. She watched Héloïse smile and shake hands with people. Several of the professorial types attempted to pull her aside to have a longer conversation with her, but she seemed to prefer devoting her time to the young undergrads who approached her.

When her admirers dissipated, Héloïse finally saw Marianne. Smiling, she bounded up the stairs to meet her. “You cut your hair,” she observed. Her own blonde hair, for the record, was still styled the same, but it looked a little darker than Marianne remembered.

Marianne self-consciously touched her pixie cut. “Does it suit me?”

“It does,” Héloïse said, after a pause. “I thought we were going to meet at that restaurant you recommended.”

“I wanted to come see you in action,” Marianne said, getting to her feet. She placed her hand on Héloïse’s arm and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, I’m hungry,” Héloïse said.

The restaurant wasn’t far from the university. It was an Italian-influenced bistro that Marianne frequently liked to meet clients in. The maitre d’ recognised her as soon as she came in, and led her to her usual table. Héloïse noticed this but offered no comment. They sat across from each other. In the muted lighting of the restaurant, she finally got the chance to look at Héloïse’s face properly. Like Marianne, Héloïse was thirty-one now, but the only signs of age were slight lines appearing in the corner of her eyes. She also looked a little tired, perhaps from jet lag.

“You’re staring,” Héloïse said, after a server came to give them menus.

Marianne chose not to apologise. “You look good,” she said. “America is treating you well?”

“I swim three times a week,” Héloïse said, as she read the menu. “I’ve also taken up tennis.”

“Tennis?” Marianne chuckled.

“Northwestern has excellent sporting facilities,” Héloïse explained. “I took advantage of them. Academia would drive me mad otherwise.”

“You seemed at home giving that lecture,” Marianne remarked.

Héloïse nodded. “It’s still a surprise seeing you there,” she said.

The server asked for their orders. When he left, Marianne changed the subject. “Did you hear that our parents are going to make another film together?” she asked Héloïse. “This time, your mother is going to be the lead.”

“Yes, Maman won’t stop sending me messages about it,” Héloïse said. “I wish I hadn’t taught her how to use WhatsApp.”

“At least you two are getting along,” Marianne said.

“Most of the time,” Héloïse said, with a quiet chuckle. “You know that Sophie is working at one of the big tourism agencies in Brest. In accounts.”

“Yes, she emailed me. I’m happy for her.”

Their drinks arrived. They continued their conversation through their meal. Marianne told Héloïse about her new studio, the very first space she operated from on her own. She told her about her recent trips to Milan and Florence, where she shot fashion editorials. She told her about the books she just finished reading, the films she had just seen. These were things in her life that Héloïse already knew a little bit about, but it felt different,  _ better _ , to relay them out loud, face to face.

They walked around the city afterwards. Marianne pointed out her favourite stops around town, and then she remembered something. “Wait, this is your first proper time in Lyon, isn’t it?” she asked Héloïse.

“Yes,” Héloïse said. “You remembered.”

“Of course,” Marianne said. “Well? What do you think?”

Héloïse didn’t respond right away, and looked around her, as if in careful consideration. Her eyes flitted up to the overcast sky. “The weather could be better,” she joked.

They had stopped in front of a cinema that displayed its film posters out the front, so people walking along the footpath could see what was screening. Marianne pointed at one of the posters. “Look.” It was the recently released film adaptation of  _ Brooklyn _ .

“Do you need to be home soon?” Héloïse asked.

“No, I’ve got time,” Marianne told her. “Why?”

Héloïse took her hand. “Come, let’s go see it,” she said.

After the film, Héloïse walked with her to the train station. They stopped walking when they reached the lobby.

“It was lovely to spend time with you today,” Marianne said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Héloïse said. She pulled Marianne in for a hug.

Marianne shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around Héloïse. She sighed at the sensation of Héloïse’s body against hers, the events and emotions flooding back, triggering muscle memory she thought was long lost. How could she have forgotten the way they fit so well together? “I hope the rest of your symposium goes well,” she whispered against Héloïse’s neck. What she actually wanted to say was that she wanted more time with her. That she should get on the train with her and spend the night in Saint-Etienne.

Héloïse let go of her. Her left hand caressed Marianne’s cheek. “Look after yourself, Marianne,” she said. She kissed Marianne where her hand had just brushed.

Marianne went through the electronic gates. Before heading towards the platform that would take her back to Saint-Etienne, she turned around to look at Héloïse one last time. She saw her still standing there, her hands in the pockets of her trousers. Marianne felt tears pricking her eyes. She waved.

Héloïse simply nodded in return, before walking out of the station.

* * *

The session has concluded. Marianne observes her students as they pack away the light stands and the equipment that they had borrowed. One by one, they gather their possessions and bid her goodbye. When the last student leaves, Marianne locks the door after her.

She hasn’t put the photograph away yet. It used to hang in her studio, maybe around two years ago, and she has just kept forgetting to take it home. She leans in closer, to inspect the small details: the wispy clouds, the blue-green foam of the waves, the fine grains of sand in the foreground. And then her eyes move to the subject of the photograph. The wetsuit-clad woman, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her gaze directed to her left, fixed somewhere in the distance. 

Marianne’s hands itch, as if remembering the mechanics of taking the photograph at Le Minou some seven years ago. Stopping down the aperture, increasing the shutter speed, lowering the ISO, nailing her focus. She shuts her eyes, and the photograph disappears from her sight, yet instead, she hears the crashing of waves.

She walks around her studio, turning off electrical outlets and pushing furniture back into place. She puts on her coat. She collects her bag and then goes outside to lock the studio doors. She gets into her car and drives home, appreciating how the leaves have transformed into oranges and yellows on the trees of Saint-Etienne.

She hears it as she unlocks her front door. The ever-recognisable flute. She pushes the door open and walks into her modest living room. Sufjan Stevens’ light voice fills the air. She laughs quietly to herself as she closes the door.

Héloïse has spread herself out on the couch. Her head is propped up by one armrest, her feet propped up by the other. As usual, she’s reading a book. She doesn’t look up even as she speaks to Marianne: “Dinner’s in the oven.”

Marianne slips out of her sneakers. “Great,” she says. She walks over to the stereo and turns down the volume. She approaches the couch, and Héloïse bends her legs, making room. But as soon as she sits, Héloïse stretches them out again, resting them on her lap.

Eyes still not leaving her book, Héloïse asks, “Did you have a good class with your students?”

“Yeah, I think they’re really getting there,” Marianne replies. She runs her hands along Héloïse’s denim-clad legs. She gives her right shin an affectionate squeeze.

At this, Héloïse finally lowers her book, her eyes meeting Marianne’s for the first time since the morning, when they were saying goodbye to each other. She smiles at Marianne.

Marianne smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the beginning of the first chapter to include an epigraph from my favourite novel, which I think captures the spirit of the fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading. What a great ride this has been! I thought I'd finish off by going through some of the considerations I made and the influences I pulled from while planning this modern AU. (I am a meticulous planner when it comes to writing, so talking about this is actually very fun for me.)
> 
> 1\. The dialogue: if you've read any of my fics before you'd know that I'm big on dialogue. However, Celine Sciamma is very careful with her dialogue. Every word counts. I found myself having to cut a lot of the dialogue, and I've had to ensure that characters aren't as verbose as I would usually write them to be. For Héloïse, especially this meant halving her dialogue sometimes. It was a great lesson is making sure that everything they're saying carries weight and is well-considered.
> 
> 2\. The tribute to Adele Haenel's magnetism: As a film, Portrait has that special layer of being written with Adele Haenel's star power in mind. The woman has an unmatched presence. I also wanted that to come through in this fic, by writing it so that there's always this gravitational pull towards the character of Héloïse. Marianne is more of the anchor, but she's our anchor as the audience/reader, and she herself keeps getting swept away by Héloïse, just like we do.
> 
> 3\. The music: I chose "Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!" because it's a song about a memory. The coda of the song, where the title comes from, has to be my favourite part. Sufjan's sick of telling the story. It's a love story and he's fed up with it. But it doesn't diminish the love. Anyway, it's beautiful.
> 
> 4\. The time setting: The "flashbacks" in the fic are set in 2012, giving seven years between the time Héloïse and Marianne spent together to the present day (the first and the final scene). That meant finding appropriate analogues for the issues faced in the film: in 2012, there weren't revenge porn laws in France. Marianne still owns an iPod instead of listening to music on her phone.
> 
> 5\. The happy ending: In an interview, Adele Haenel talked about how if Portrait hadn't been set in the time it was set in, then the two ladies would have probably found a way to be with each other. I pay tribute to that here.
> 
> 6\. My influences, aside from Celine Sciamma: Weekend (my favourite film of all time, directed by Andrew Haigh), America is Not the Heart by Elaine Castillo (best slow burn WLW romance in recent fiction), and Sufjan Stevens (of course).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Leave a comment!


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